


The One That Gives

by gloss



Series: Alive in Your Life [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Earth, BB-8 is a corgi, Banter, Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M, meet cute, minor kylux background pairing, never part, shameless otping, so much dumbass flirtatious banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Finn's a bouncer, just trying to do his job. Poe's very drunk, and handsome, and ridiculously lascivious.This is going to end well.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orchis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchis/gifts), [galacticproportions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticproportions/gifts).



> Twitter's AU Bot planted [the idea](https://twitter.com/au_idea_bot/status/791808918464757760) and I couldn't shake it.
> 
> Thanks, more than I can say, to Orchis and GalacticProportions for reassurance and encouragement along the way. 
> 
> I still don't know what this story is, but here it is. ♥

> ###  _don't run to the one that might love you back/you got to run to the one that gives_ — Betty Burke, [You Can't Wear Suede in the Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkNKTL4OVLY)

 

 

A strong hand grasps Poe by the shoulder. "Okay, buddy, sorry to say, but it's time to get going --"

"I don't wanna!" Poe shouts, trying to spin around on his stool to see who'd be so _egregiously_ forward as to touch him. The stool is not the spinning sort, apparently. Now he's tangled up in his own limbs like spaghetti you forget in the pot.

"Not really a question of what you want."

"But my friend -- he's --" He looks around. It's been awhile since he saw Kylo or any of his friends. That's weird. "Where's my friend?"

"Right here, I'm your new friend," the man says. 

"I don't need a new friend, though. I had --"

"Think of this as a rescue." 

Poe pulls his shoulders up around his ears and tries to lock his feet into the rungs of the stool. "From what?"

"From some very poor decision-making." The voice is _very_ close -- warm breath, right behind Poe's ear, that generates an accelerating wave of tingles and expectations cascading down his chest and splashing around his groin. "And imminent heartbreak."

"Huh," Poe says as he finally does turn around. "You make an arguing interestment. Interesting argument." The bouncer is big, and handsome -- like, _really_ handsome, it's not just the multiple Cancháncharas talking here, the guy is beyond good-looking. "Jesus wept. You're incredibly handsome, you know that?"

He grins and, shaking his head, takes Poe's elbow. "Nice of you, but you've still got to be on your way."

Poe slides off his barstool far more quickly than he was expecting, _whoosh_ , like the rum is a waterfall and he's shooting its rapids. He stumbles against the guy's solid frame and just manages to stop himself from copping a feel. He's all muscle, solid and so _warm_. 

"Aren't you a little short to be a bouncer, though? You're like my height." He squints against the drunken blear and sweat stinging his eyes. "Maybe a little taller? Not by much. I'm wearing boots!" 

He kicks out one foot to show the boots off. 

"Those look great!" the bouncer says. He actually sounds sincere, so Poe must be drunker than he thought, because aren't all bouncers roided-out dicks? He's pretty sure that's in the job description. Even the breathtakingly, heartbreakingly handsome ones, like this guy. Especially them. "Let's get you some fresh air, okay?"

"I got them on sale," Poe tells him as the bouncer guides him through the crowd toward the side exit. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me, I'm not like some out of control drunk and spendthrift, see, I'm actually usually quite sensitive. Sensible." He frowns. "Both of those."

"I don't have any idea about you," the guy says. "No worries."

Poe stops short, unexpectedly enough that the bouncer keeps going a little ways. Their arms stretch out like they're about to dance. Twirl into each other until they're a single body: cling and hold before one of them gets dipped dizzily. When the bouncer looks back, Poe shakes the hair out of his eyes and gives him his biggest smile. "But you should have _some_ idea about me, I don't want to just pass through --"

He meant like ships in the night. For some reason, however, he's made himself think about birds and how seeds, even some snails, can pass through their guts undigested. That is _not_ the impression he wants to make on this guy. Or on anyone, to be honest. Maybe an ornithologist or very hardcore amateur birdwatcher. "Do you like birds?"

"They're cool."

"Okay, good, that's a huge relief."

The bouncer's eyelashes are so long and pretty that Poe's fairly certain they're casting their own shadows under the whirling lights. "Why don't we head outside. You can tell me out there what you think I need to know. About birds or anything. Sound good?"

His big, warm palm slides back up Poe's arm to squeeze his elbow. Poe's nodding before he even realizes it, being drawn forward before he thinks to move. 

Outside, the air is like being slapped, cold and almost _hard_ , unforgiving as granite, against his overheated skin. Poe leans against the wall, hoping it has a better sense of gravity and how to stay upright than he currently possesses.

"So I was watching you," the bouncer says. He speaks so gently, like he's choosing each word with care and concern. 

"I'm Poe, that's my name." Poe swallows and the cold air hurts his throat. "What's your name? Wait, fuck. You were watching me?" He scrubs his hands through his hair and tries to straighten his posture -- like he still has time to make a good impression? He's falling-down drunk and sweating and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he's eight years old again, not on Adderall yet, _and_ he has an overflowing bladder.

"Hi, Poe, I'm Finn." He _smiles_ again and Poe is more than drunk enough to want to bathe in the warmth of that smile. He starts to tip forward, but Finn stops him with his palm flat on Poe's chest. "How're you feeling?"

Poe nudges against Finn's hand. "I am drunk. I am so very drunk. But enough about me, how are _you_?"

"Do you have money for a cab? Tokens, maybe?"

Poe squints at him. "Are you inviting yourself over? Because, let me tell you, I am _down_ for that, you have no --"

"I'm worried about you making it home safe," Finn tells him. "You're plastered."

"I am, I really am!" Poe laughs, then abruptly stops laughing. "Fuck. I hope I don't remember this tomorrow. I'm going to be so embarrassed."

"Nah," Finn says. He tilts his head slightly, his smile small and private. Poe imagines -- sharply, in like smell-o-vision and sensurround -- tracing that smile with his fingertips. His tongue. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. Just get home safe and sleep it off, okay?"

"I sleep better with company," Poe says and rolls himself along the wall until he's pressed up against Finn's side. "You want to be sure I'm rescued? Maybe you should --"

"Buddy," Finn says, taking Poe by the shoulders and stepping back, holding him out of range. "I'm at work, we just met, and you're basically seeing pink elephants."

"No pink elephants," Poe insists. "Just blazingly gorgeous dudes I want to climb like Everest."

Finn ducks his head and grins. That can't be news to him, yet he's reacting like he's never heard a compliment before.

"I'm going to call you a cab, all right? You don't use Uber or anything, I hope."

"Ha!" Poe grabs at Finn's upper arm and squeezes it, shakes it, and just basically hangs on for dear life. "God, you're beautiful and socially conscious, like ethical as hell, and I am going to hate myself in the morning for blowing this." That sounds wrong, but he doesn't know why. "For not blowing you?"

He grins. Much better.

"Man..." Finn sounds a little amused. Fond, almost indulgent, even. He slides his arm around Poe's back to guide him up the block to the corner. "Take care of yourself, all right?"

"2187!" someone yells. Then, more loudly but far more decisively: "2187."

Poe's about to shout back another nonsense combination of numbers, but Finn freezes and turns.

"Just escorting this patron to --"

"Let him go, return to your station."

"One moment!" Finn calls.

"He has been escorted off the premises and is no longer your concern."

"For pity's sake," Finn mumbles, so quietly that Poe can barely hear. Finn takes a breath before he adds, "I will be right there, ma'am."

"69-420!" Poe contributes, now that he remembers what the funny numbers are. Although he's standing still, he manages to trip over his own toes laughing at himself. Finn catches him and pulls him back upward. "Or, like. 70! Because the way I do it, it's even better than 69."

"Shut. Up," Finn mutters even as he tightens his hold on Poe's arm. "Ma'am, I'm seeing this patron to a safe ride home, then --" Poe tries to peer around Finn, see who he's talking to, who's yelling at him so meanly, but Finn shuffles in front of him to block the view. "No, you know what?"

Poe yanks on the hem of Finn's (beautifully snug-fitting) shirt. "Don't quit! That's crazy! And incredibly fucking romantic, but mostly crazy! I'm not worth it!"

"I'm not --" Finn starts to say over his shoulder, but then the woman speaks over him.

"2187, this is your final warning."

"He's just doing his job!" Poe shouts desperately as he jumps, trying to see over Finn's shoulder. "He's doing a great job! He smells great and he's the best thing that ever happened to this hipster hellhole! Give him a raise, not a warning!"

"Seriously," Finn tells him, "shut up, all right? You're not helping."

"But I'm trying to help," Poe protests, grabbing on to one of Finn's broad shoulders and hauling himself up to his toes. Urgency courses through him, displacing (he believes) the warm fog of drunkenness in favor of the sharp clarity of purpose. "I'll get it right, just give me a chance --"

"Sssh!" Finn steps forward -- or, really, it's backward, because it's _back_ toward the club, away from Poe, out of his life, leaving him alone and forlorn, forsaken and heartbroken. "Ma'am, I'm sorry."

Poe watches a crack in the sidewalk grow larger, both in length and width. Stretching as it rises to meet him, opening to welcome him, sucking him right down to hell.

Then he's shaking himself awake; he's in the backseat of a car, slumped against the door. 

"Fuck," he says, then laughs, because, if anything, rum makes him even more insightful and riptide clever than he is usually.

The lights of the traffic stretch and bloom through the dirty window, dazzling white, throbbing red.

"Hey," someone says, next to him, not the driver. 

Poe jumps about a mile, or so it feels, but he doesn't even bang his head on the roof. He does clutch at the driver's headrest for balance and reassurance before looking over.

The beautiful bouncer is peering at him, looking a little worried. 

"Oh, shit, you're _real_ ," Poe says.

"You're alive," the kid replies. "Starting to seriously wonder."

"You left, though," Poe insists, jabbing the guy in his thick, delightfully _solid_ thigh. "Didn't you? Left me forbroken and heartsaken. Heartlorn and for--. Something."

He smiles gently and shakes his head a little. He _is_ an angel, Poe is more and more certain. No mere mortal human being can smile like that. "You fell over as I was getting fired so I figured we'd take the ride together."

With a quick glance at the front seat, Poe leans over. He lowers his voice. "Did you steal this car?"

"Complete with driver? Man, you're still drunk."

"Excuse me," Poe says and tries to sit up straight and smooth down the rats' nest of his hair. Dignity, he thinks. Always dignity. "I expect I will be drunk for several hours yet. Some of us don't have the blessing and benefit of youth and livers that cooperate. Some of us are just creepy old dudes with pretensions to attractiveness."

Where the fuck did that come from? He's older than this guy, sure, but so are several different mayflies. Poe's never had a hang-up about his age before. 

Maybe this is why he doesn't drink much.

"Careful," Finn tells him, stopping Poe from falling into his lap with a gentle hand on his chest. The driver makes a huge left onto Yavin and Poe tips even more towards Finn. He's not thinking of anything except that smile, how the kid looks somehow grave _and_ radiant, headlights striping over his bright, sharp eyes, his full cheeks and delicious-looking mouth. 

Angels are terrifying beings, too much for mortals to handle, but goddamn it, Poe wants to try. Handling him, that is.

And then he's distracted completely as the car slows to a stop. "Hey, it's my building!"

"Yeah," Finn says, getting out, then reaching back in to help Poe. "Good looking out."

"You're coming in, right?" Poe manages to stand on relatively steady feet, but that is mostly due to Finn's arm around his shoulders. It feels _right_ there, both the weight of it and the way it fits so naturally, so easily.

"I was going to go home," Finn says. He doesn't sound very pleased about that fact, and he doesn't make much of an effort to disengage from Poe, though he does duck away when Poe tries to nuzzle his neck.

Finn's neck smells really good. Like balsam forests with candy-cane rivers.

The driver leans over to the passenger seat. "Hey, in or out? Shit or get off the pot, guy!"

"Ewww," Poe says, "that's just gross."

"I'm coming," Finn tells the driver.

"No." Poe steps between Finn and the car. "I know I'm ridiculously drunk. Cosmically drunk. I know that. but you should come up anyway."

"Buddy..."

Poe raises both palms. "No monkey business, I promise." One glance at Finn's intent gaze, and he has to sigh and back up. "Not _much_ , I promise, I won't try very much, I talk a good game but all I really want to do is drink some juice and pass out. I've got a sweet-ass sofa bed, you can take that. Or I will, that's more polite, you can have the bed-bed, but seriously, this sofa bed is _amazing_ , no Ikea slabs here, it's --"

"In, out, what's it gonna be?" the driver says.

Poe knocks his hand against the door to shut him up. "I think this was meant to be. You, and me. Not this guy, he kind of sucks. But you and me, meeting, tonight. I fucked it up with the drinking and the hitting on that douche, should've saved myself for you. Finn!" He clutches Finn's upper arms. "I'm sorry!"

"I hope this is just you drunk," Finn says, laughing a little, squeezing Poe's wrists, "because if this is what you're like all the time, I'm exhausted already. Think I bit off way more than I can chew."

"Perv, you don't _chew_ it," Poe says, elbowing him. Then he stops, reconsiders, and clutches Finn's hand between both of his. "Unless you're into that. Whatever you're into, I think I'm up for it, too. Let's go crazy!"

"Rate me please," the driver says but Poe's too drunk and flushed with happiness to think of a good retort

Then they're inside his building's foyer and Finn's digging in Poe's front pocket for his keys.

His hand in Poe's jeans feels amazing, rough and kind of thoughtless, jabbing. Perfect.

"Harder, babe," Poe tells him, rolling his hips hard. Finn looks at him and narrows his eyes as he shakes his head. "What? It feels good."

Finn gives him the keys. "Here, you do the honors."

"Thank you, kind sir." Poe bats his eyelashes, then realizes that makes him dizzy. Dizzier. He sways as he finds the right key after the seventh try, then leads Finn up two flights and to his door and a whole new challenge of keys and locks. 

"Here we go," he says, throwing open the door, "mi casa es su casa. _Tu_ casa, even, yeah?" He grins. "¿Quiere acostarse conmigo?"

Before Finn can do much more than frown in incomprehension, BB-8 howls imprecations from his crate. 

"Yeah, yeah, cry me a fucking river," Poe tells him, dropping his keys on the counter and leaning over -- hello, gravity! -- to untie his boots. "Papa had a weird night but met a nice angel and you can just shut up for a minute."

Finn's still standing on the threshold, his entire body haloed by the hallway's flickering light. "Dog?"

BB-8 yips at the word; he knows that, and "snack" and "walk", and not much else. "Crate", sometimes, but only when he's feeling cooperative.

"He says he's a wolf," Poe says, still bent over. He's not sure if he's going to survive the effort it will take to right himself. "But, yes. dog. Tiny crazy little mutt, actually."

"You okay down there?" Finn's at his side suddenly, before dropping down to one knee. "Let me do that, you're in no shape --"

"I want to be there and you be here," Poe says, and touches the terrifically soft, short hair just above Finn's nape. "Like me down there. Knees. You here, up. You know?"

"Man, quit it," Finn tells him, pulling off the first boot, then glancing up and grinning. "I'm not fooling around with you. Not this drunk."

"But less drunk would be okay?"

"Not drunk would be okay," Finn says and tugs off the other boot. He lines them up neatly, then rises from his crouch. "Optimal, actually."

"Not-drunk in general or not-drunk me specifically?" Poe thought he understood, but, maybe, clarity wouldn't be such a bad thing. Save him getting his time wasted and heart all stomped on. He grins, impressed with his level of forethought and self-care. "Just so I know."

Finn cups Poe's cheek and tilts slowly in. Poe lets his head fall back and opens his mouth, but Finn simply drops a chaste little peck on his forehead. "Not-drunk you, specifically and precisely."

BB-8 sneezes and Poe starts to laugh but he stops when he realizes that Finn's still looking at him. He's intent and warm-eyed, with a softness throughout his expression that, even were he totally stone-sober, Poe _still_ wouldn't have the words to describe nor the emotional acuity to process how safe and excited it makes him feel, being looked at like this.

"Time to hydrate. Drink up," Finn says briskly, drawing away to open the fridge. Poe has to blink against the glare; he raises his forearm over his eyes to block most of the agonizing glow. "Poe?"

"Yeah, here, sorry." Poe takes the carton of orange juice and drinks down half of it before Finn carefully, deliberately, takes it back and returns it to the fridge.

"Bed?" Finn waits at the dividing line between kitchenette, indicated by tiles, and the rest of the apartment, which has wood floors.

"I should make up the couch for you, right?" Poe tries to think calmly and clearly. He visualizes a listicle on the kind of website he rarely visits, Ten Things to Do to Make Sure Your Guest Feels Welcome (so he'll put out next time, hopefully, fingers crossed, Christ, it's been so long, let's hope you remember where your dick is).

"Sure I can figure it out," Finn says, his voice so kind as he takes Poe's hand that Poe preemptively forgives himself for starting to plan their honeymoon. "Your bed?"

"This way," Poe says, stepping carefully down the middle of the hall. He's on an unevenly weighted surfboard, it feels like, in very rough seas. "I can't remember if the room's clean, please don't think less of me if it's a pigsty, I'm a good guy who sometimes forgets to --" His apartment is tiny, so they're already in his bedroom before he notices. "Oh, score, it looks okay. Go, past me."

That's because he was certain he'd be bringing that douche Ren home, he remembers now. Poe had cleaned up, the apartment and himself; he even fucking trimmed his bush to neaten it and brushed his teeth three times. He bought those boots, which are awesome, but not exactly in his budget, even on sale. 

Christ, he's a fucking mess.

Fuck, now he's sad. He drops down to the edge of his bed and collapses backward. He's torn between longing for sleep and wanting to cry his fool heart out. His throat hurts, his eyes burn.

"Finn?"

"Yeah, Poe?"

"Can you let BB out of his crate? I don't want to sleep alone." He struggles to prop himself up on one elbow. "That's a real and true feeling of sincerity, I'm not being slick, trying to put the moves on you any more, I just. Can you send my dog in?"

Finn squeezes Poe's foot. "Of course, no problem."

"Thanks," Poe says, falling back again and squirming up the bed until he hits the pillows. "For everything. For not murdering me, too. Or robbing the place, but you're welcome to anything, actually, just help yourself. There's not much. The expensive cameras are on the filing cabinet."

He's fast asleep, jaw dropped open, by the time BB waddles in and starts to snuffle and whimper in frustration at the box spring. Finn lifts the corgi mix carefully by his generous midsection and places him next to Poe's sprawled form.

The guy looks just as good asleep with a mouth full of snores as he did flirting outrageously in the bar. Good-looking doesn't quite cover it, really. There's something about him, even with his face slack in sleep, that's _ripe_ , almost palpably, undeniably kissable. But sad, too, classically so. Finn shakes his head at his own weird-ass whimsy, pulls down Poe's shirt where it's ridden up past his waist, then shakes out a blanket from the foot of the bed over him.

The dog watches him from where he's nestled into Poe's armpit.

"Well?" Finn asks him. "Do I pass muster or what?"

Both ears go up, but BB just blinks at him before stuffing his snout against Poe's ribs and sighing heavily.

"Fair enough," Finn says and goes to get a glass of water for when Poe wakes up. 

When he has run out of excuses to keep coming back in here, he dawdles in the doorway. Without anything to do, he's going to start panicking, he knows this. He's going to think about how he's unemployed -- _again_ \-- and then he's going to start worrying. He won't be able to stop.

Maybe he should have taken Poe up on the offer to fool around. It would have been a better distraction, even if it did violate every single ethical principle in the world.

God knows he _wanted_ to fool around. He's fairly sure he made himself clear on that point, but now he has that to worry about, too.

Who knows what the guy will be like, sober, in the morning.

Probably even hotter, let's be honest.

*

Finn started the night feeling all right. Usually he bar-backed in the back room, hauling glassware and fetching kegs and jerry-rigging the draft hoses when necessary. He'd push the mop when he had to, help patrons to the curb, occasionally fend off handsy come-ons.

But tonight, with two guys no-shows, he got switched over to security. First, Phasma gave him the hairy eyeball and stern lecture about not taking advantage of his position.

"That wasn't the issue," he tried to protest, but she waved him off.

"No more incidents, are we understood?"

Nodding, Finn just barely managed to keep himself from sarcastically saluting. The "incident" had occurred last month. Finn stepped in to prevent a slimy creep from taking an extremely drunk, nearly underaged girl home. She wouldn't answer one way or another when he asked her directly if she wanted to leave with the guy clutching her arm so hard he was leaving marks. More than a little freaked out, Finn borrowed her phone and called her first contact -- her sister, it turned out -- to come pick her up.

He's still sure he did the right thing, but the slime was some kind of associate of the owner's. He bitched Finn out to hell and back, threatening vague repercussions and suggesting terrible things about his genetics. The girl cried a lot and fell off her teetering heels, twisting an ankle. 

It was a mess and it was all Finn's fault, because he was lowest in status and had to take it.

Phasma maintained that the creep's connection to Hux made no difference in Finn's disciplinary situation. Rather, it had been Finn's mistake to intervene in patrons' private business.

This was all bullshit. Finn hated doing security anyway, and getting his pay docked was just the shit cherry on top of a poison sundae.

So his mood tonight wasn't the best, but for a Friday, the club wasn't too out of control. No fights so far, only one crying jag so far, and that was just the DJ. He was starting to think he could get through the shift just fine when he passed the back offices. Hux was sitting in the bouncers' room, watching the monitors and laughing with some of the staff.

Finn tried to ignore it. They were in charge, and he had to do what they said, but he didn't have to _care_ about them.

When he checked on the back room, he got an inkling of what was going on. Hux's boyfriend, the tall pale goth dickhead, was at the bar with some of his hangers-on. He was talking to a curly-haired guy. Really _talking_ to him, hand on his waist, leaning in, asking him to buy another round, and another.

Kylo and his friends always drink for free -- that's rule number one around here if you want to avoid the worst of his tantrums -- but they also like to trick schmucks into buying them things. They love playing games to make their partners jealous, and it's best when they can combine the games.

This kind of shit makes Finn's skin crawl, but, once again: he doesn't have to care.

This guy, though, he didn't deserve such treatment. No one does, of course, but usually their targets are guys as assholish as they are, people that Finn's never going to lose sleep over. But tonight's guy was different. For one thing, he was wearing a red-and-black plaid shirt. Anywhere else, the shirt would look totally ordinary, but in this crowd of living x-rays swathed in jagged layers of neutrals, the guy might as well have been on fire, he looked so bright. He seemed pretty normal, whatever the hell that meant, and friendly, too, talking to all of the entourage and the bartender, too.

The next time Finn passed the offices, the crowd at the monitors had diminished. Hux and Kylo were in the big office, fighting passionately. Their screaming, frequently shoving, occasionally pummelling, matches are foreplay, everyone knows that. More bullshit, in Finn's eyes. 

Phasma grabbed Finn's elbow and jerked her head to indicate the lumberjack-shirted sad sack who was now holding on to the bar with both hands. He sagged there, like he was going to pour off the stool if he loosened his grip.

"Get rid of him," she said.

Finn didn't argue. It would be a kindness to get this guy out of here, away from all these horrible people and their stupid manipulative playtime. Hell, he wished he could come along.

"And do it fast," she added, glancing over her shoulder toward the big office.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, 2187." She calls everyone by the last four digits of their social security numbers; she claims it makes for a more uniform work environment. He thinks she might secretly be a robot.

So off Finn went to get rid of the troublesome third wheel-slash-mark who wasn't of any use any longer. That should have been one of his more straightforward tasks. 

Instead, he found the guy far, far drunker than he'd expected, and way more beautiful, and _nice_ , even in the midst of some of the worst drunken come-ons Finn has ever heard from any gender. (And he's heard most of the worst.) Every time Poe said something particularly lascivious, he'd screw up his face, preemptively embarrassed, then get this hopeful look, brows up and eyes wide, like maybe he'd get away with it.

Phasma called him back when they were halfway to the corner. Finn still doesn't know what came over him, but there she was, enforcing rules for the convenience of two men who hate her and expecting him to fall in line, too, and it was suddenly all too much. Poe was hanging off him, clingy and sweaty and somehow very _dear_ , and in that moment, Finn simply couldn't imagine leaving him alone out here. Let alone going back to work.

He dug Poe's wallet out of his back pocket and got his address, then called an Uber on the club's account. 

And now he's here, in a strange guy's nice, tiny apartment, listening to him fight a snoring deathmatch with his dog. There's an overstuffed bookcase next to a tiny typing table and filing cabinet, wedged up next to the couch, and not much more space than that. Finn checks out the framed photographs hung everywhere. There aren't many people, but lots of birds and trees, foxes squinting at the camera, pine boughs heavy with snow. They're windows to the rest of the world, outside the city, where -- Finn assumes -- the air is better and nights are darker, quieter, probably lonelier. Brighter stars, colder hearts.

Finn is free, and he should be scared out of his wits -- he will be, won't he, when he comes down off the adrenaline -- but instead he's just faintly worried but mostly tired.

He keeps waiting for the worry to start up. It's taking its time; he's starting to think it might just never get off the ground. He's young, he's strong, he's got a pretty good head on his shoulders, whatever tonight's series of rash decisions might suggest. He'll find another job. He has to.

He reclines on Poe's couch, pulls a plaid blanket over his lap and tugs off his shoes. 

This guy really likes plaid. It might be some kind of disorder, frankly.

*

Poe appears to have crashlanded. He must be the sleepwalking Sully Sullenburger, only he crashed, here, nearly died. So he's more like Yuri Gagarin, come to think of it, which he does, but that hurts like hell. Maybe he did die and this is what being a zombie feels like: sluggish, a head dully throbbing with each attempt at thought, marble-heavy uncoordinated limbs.

He crashed, died, came back to consciousness...in his own bed. That part is strange, but he'll take it.

BB-8 nips on Poe's wrist as soon as he lifts his head from the pillow (effortfully, with a huge amount of regret almost immediately).

"I'll be right with you, buddy," Poe tells him, working his jaw, then knuckling at his eye sockets. Dogs and other non-human animals don't understand linear time; BB's just comforted that he was listened to. Poe likes that about him, a lot. He scritches the top of BB's head, moving the skin around, stroking the fine short fur. BB lets out a big sigh, then suddenly hops to his feet and launches himself off the bed. He lands messily, rights himself with nails skittering horribly on the floor, and gallops away down the hall.

"Or you could just...go do your thing," Poe says. "That's cool, I'm fine, I'm more than fine."

He rolls onto his side, takes a deep breath, and concentrates on swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

He can't remember the last time he was this hungover. Still, the lemon-colored light filling his room is slightly less outrageously stinging with each blink. He stretches a little, testing how much he can take, then notices a glass of water on the floor beside the bed. Miraculously, it survived sharing space with BB. Most tippable things, particularly fragile and/or liquid-containing ones, are not nearly so lucky.

When he has drunk down the water, Poe stands and lets himself get reacquainted with gravity. No way is he doing his usual morning yoga -- the idea makes his stomach barrel-roll and flop -- but he stretches up onto his toes, wiggles his fingers, and rolls his head around his neck.

Out in the living room, it sounds like BB is breakdancing -- there's the scratch of his claws on the floor as he whirls in excited circles and the occasional thump of him falling over, which is different, heavier in resonance, than the thwack of his tail against the floor or pieces of furniture. Someone's talking to him, encouraging him, crooning praise.

Wait, did he leave the radio on last night? Does he even _own_ a radio any more?

That's when time and memory accelerate together, drag-race like bats out of hell, zooming through his mind: the club last night, the date that blew up in his face, the bouncer.

God, the _bouncer_.

Poe rakes both hands through his hair, which probably just makes everything worse, yanks up his jeans, and pads down the hall. 

"Morning," the bouncer says, from where he's sitting on the sofa, teasing BB with a rope toy. BB has always snubbed that toy in the past but now he's showering it with all the love in his giant beautiful dog heart.

"You're here," Poe says, then nods rapidly and tries to wave away the inanity as well as the surge of vertigo. "Um. Whoa, hi."

Bouncer is standing up now, practically aglow in the morning light. He smiles a little nervously as he rubs his palms over his thighs. When BB yips and headbutts his calves, he reaches down and pets him. "I should get going, I just --" He glances at the sofa. "I guess I fell asleep, sorry."

"You didn't even fold it out!" Poe says, "didn't I tell you about how comfy it is?"

"You did, yeah," he replies, grinning now, almost fondly (probably not, but Poe's hungover and wants to believe). "At length, as a matter of fact."

He's so handsome and his voice is rich like syrup, or sap boiling down to syrup, and, _fuck_. Now Poe's in love all over again but also fucking starving. He points at one of the photos on the wall, of a tiny sugar shack sending curlicues of steam up against the snowy woods. He took it out in the Gaspésie a few years ago. "Have you ever gone sugaring?"

"Have I...?" The bouncer goes to study the picture. "I don't know what that is, so, no. Pretty confident I never have, sorry."

"Don't apologize, it's okay, but you should go, it's a trip." In the kitchen, which is separated from the rest of the apartment merely by some counter space, Poe takes down a bottle of syrup he brought back from Quebec and a box of pancake mix. "Do I have eggs? Shit, are you vegan? I could make those fake eggs with the chickpea goop, if I have chickpeas --"

"I'm not vegan," the bouncer says, glancing over from his sustained study of the photos. "What are you doing?"

Poe has climbed up, and is now kneeling, on the edge of the sink so he can look into the top cabinet. Karé stocked the place before he got back, but she's so tall that there are undiscovered treasures every time he goes to check.

"Trying to make breakfast," Poe confesses, climbing back down. He doesn't know where to start. Does he have a whisk? Maybe he needs a food processor; he doesn't have a food processor. No, pancake mix long predates food processors, he's being ridiculous. He places both hands on the edge of the counter and leans over. "Not something I usually do, but --"

"Don't, man, that's crazy --"

"But I really want to," Poe finishes.

They stare at each other, each one probably waiting for the other to speak again. But neither does. The apartment is full to the brim with light, carving out all the details of the bouncer's features, his cheeks and neck, the muscles in his forearms, the soft blur of his hair. Poe longs for his camera, then curses himself, because he doesn't want to be _out_ of this moment and locked behind a lens. He wants to be exactly where he is, only without the cabinet between them, maybe with his hands on the guy's waist. Mouth on his, definitely.

"All right," the bouncer finally says, gently, almost like he's talking to himself. He crosses the room -- it takes all of four strides -- and puts his hands on the other side of the counter, mirroring Poe's stance. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

BB chooses that moment to bark urgently and scratch the door.

"Shit," Poe adds. "Guy needs to do his morning business, that's a priority." BB barks again. "I hear you, dude!"

"Why don't I take him out, you can shower, make some coffee, and then we'll reconvene?"

"Reconvene?"

"Yeah," the bouncer says and nods. "Reconvene."

He sounds so calm and sweet that Poe wishes -- weirdly, desperately -- he could just turn over all higher brain function to this guy.

"Yeah? That'd be okay?" 

Bouncer nods, then slowly drums his fingers on the counter. They haven't broken eye contact in what feels like hours. "More than okay. I like your dog and you, you could probably use the shower."

"I must stink, yeah." Poe hears himself laugh, like he's watching himself in a movie, feels unconvinced by his own performance. "For a second it sounded like you were saying you like _me,_ which is --"

"That, too," he says, then grins, and _winks_. 

All Poe can do is silently push over his key ring. He points at the leash on the hook by the door.

As bouncer clips BB's leash on, he says to BB, "You'll show me what to do, right? No tricks?"

BB's already out the door when Poe says, suddenly, very loudly, "Finn!"

Finn sticks his head back in. "Yeah?"

"Nothing," Poe says, abashed as _hell_. "I --. Never mind."

"No, what?"

"Just remembered your name."

Finn does a double-take. "Should we be worrying about concussions and memory loss here?"

"No, no, I just --." Poe sags slightly. "I don't drink that much. Usually. Ever. Sorry."

"Don't be, seriously," Finn says, and closes the door, and leaves Poe standing there, suddenly out of breath and reeling.

The water pressure here usually drives Poe batshit; it's like being licked by very lazy rain. This morning, however, it's about all he can take. It's nice, actually, to soap up and let the trickle from the showerhead eventually rinse him clean.

He forgot to turn on the coffee maker before he got in the shower, so instead of a hot cup when he gets out, he has to settle for a few swigs from a flat 2-litre of Coke that Karé left the last time she came for dinner.

He mixes the batter, washes off the bigger of his two pans, then wonders what he's supposed to do next. More Coke, which tastes disgusting but is finishing up the job the shower started in returning him to something resembling humanity. Then he changes his clothes, reconsiders -- he doesn't want to look like he's dressed up, or does he? -- and changes again. T-shirt and jeans and his lucky black watch plaid flannel shirt, the one he was wearing when he got the shot of the moon bear.

When Finn and BB-8 return, the weather's taken a turn. They're both spattered with rain and breathless. BB runs in circles, delighted by the change in routine, and takes advantage of Poe's distraction to jump on the couch and curl up.

Poe truly is distracted, thoroughly so. Finn brought coffee, and a bag of salt rolls from the bakery three blocks over. Now he's stripping off his t-shirt, mopping his face and scrubbing at the droplets spangling his hair. It's impossible to look away from the shirtless vision, his narrow waist and broad, gorgeous chest. 

"Help yourself," Poe says, meaning -- what did he mean? Food, probably, but also clothes. "To anything. Clothes, food. Well, you paid for the food, I guess that's --. Shit." He shuts his mouth and mimes zipping his lip, but Finn cocks his head, looking him over, wet shirt balled up in his hand. His shoulders are wide as anything, it's a miracle he fits in this place, an expanse of soft-looking skin over strong planes of muscle. Poe shakes his head. "What?"

"You talk almost as much sober as drunk," Finn says and smiles.

"I guess, yeah. Do I?" Poe's not used to having people here. Honestly, _he's_ still not used to being here, not completely. Maybe he does talk too much. He still isn't sure how to fill up this space, how to move through it, how to _be_. He lets the noise insulate him, keep him company.

"Think so," Finn replies, closing the distance between them. 

"Too much?"

"Nah." He touches the collar of Poe's flannel shirt. "May I?"

"Yes, of course. Please." Poe has no idea what he's agreeing to.

"Pancakes need flipping." Finn reaches past him and Poe backs up against the fridge. He brings his coffee with him, because it's delicious, and it's exactly the way he likes it. As he turns each pancake, Finn adds, "Coffee's from the Cuban walk-up window. They know BB pretty well, called him over."

"Yeah, he loves them," Poe says. "Did he beg for tostada?"

"Yeah. I only let him have two."

"Good man, he usually weasels more than that out of me."

"He did seem a little sulky afterward," Finn says. "For like half a block, anyway."

Poe grins and rubs his chin, checking over Finn's shoulder on the fuzzy jerk. "He's a good guy."

"He is," Finn agrees.

If he didn't know better, he'd think BB took Finn on a tour of all their usual haunts on purpose: Saperstein's bakery _and_ La Habana? Can't be a coincidence. He takes another sip. "God, this is so good. Thank you."

"Welcome." Finn turns down the flame a little and leans against the counter. When he tugs on Poe's shirt hem, Poe tips a little toward him, expectantly. Finn catches him around the waist and says, softly, "Whoa."

Poe freezes. "Shit, sorry, I thought you wanted --"

"Your shirt."

"Me."

"That, too," Finn says, easy and light, like he's amused and touched all at once. He takes the cup from Poe, sets it down safely out of the way, and pushes both hands under the flannel shirt, right over Poe's hips, then under his t-shirt. "Helping myself."

"Yeah, go ahead," Poe says, then hates how stupid that sounds. Then again, he's lucky he's speaking in fairly complete sentences, given that a topless Finn is embracing him, drawing him closer, big hands settling over his hips, chilly skin over his chest and neck starting to warm from Poe's proximity. "Please. Mi cuerpo es --"

Finn kisses him then, a little too late to save him from yet another rush of embarrassment, but just in time all the same. Finn's mouth is soft, softer than anything, and then it's strong, and assertive, and _exploring_. Poe's desperate to explore right back, discover and map and -- well, maybe not _claim_ , he knows too much to believe unironically in such a concept. But something like that. 

Finn makes a rough little noise at the back of his throat that stops Poe's dumb thought-spew and lights his chest on fire, makes his hands grab at Finn's neck and waist and kiss harder.

"--burnt," Finn says, finally, pulling his mouth away, but not before sliding it along Poe's jaw. He checks the pan. "No, okay, they're good."

"Should we eat? We should eat, right?"

Finn peers at him uncertainly. "Do you want to eat?"

"I don't know! I'm trying to be responsible here, man." Poe slumps a little.

"Fine time you chose for _that_ ," Finn says, but he's grinning as he levers up the pancakes. "Plate. Good. Now, stick 'em in the oven, they'll be fine."

Poe looks at him. "Yeah? Are you sure?"

"I have a certificate in flapjack technology and waffle administration, is that what you want to hear?"

"But is it from an accredited institution?" 

"Regionally accredited. You know how some people do med school in the Caribbean? A little like that." 

"Hey, whatever it takes, right?" Poe shuts the oven door and leans back against it. He wants to be kissing again. Still. His hands itch, too empty.

"I'm going to take that shirt off your back," Finn says, crowding back up into Poe's space, "unless you kiss me some more."

"Cold, huh?"

"To the bone."

"See, if I'd known it was this easy last night to get stripped for you, we could've saved a lot of time."

"Sure," Finn says, smiling into the kiss, biting gently at Poe's lower lip. "Keep telling yourself that.'

"I will." Poe slides both hands up and down Finn's back, trying -- knowing he'll fail -- to learn the contours and planes and intricate angles of beauty. "I have other shirts, though."

"I want this one," Finn says.

"So it's about getting it off me, is that it?"

"Got it in one, yeah."

"Dude," Poe says, "why didn't you _say_ so?"

Finn blinks a couple times. "Thought I did."

"I can get naked! I can get so naked, you're not even going to believe how naked --"

"Whoa, there," Finn says, but he doesn't sound like he wants to slow down at all. " _Naked?_ "

"Naked," Poe says firmly, and then stops, hands at his fly. "Or --"

"Maybe let that happen organically," Finn suggests. There's something about the way he can say no but still sound so kind, so interested, that Poe figures comes in very handy as a bouncer.

That's when he remembers something else Finn said. "Wait, did you get fired last night?"

"Yeah." Finn frowns, his expression shutting down and dimming. 

"Fuck, because of me?"

"Because of them being assholes," Finn says.

"And me."

"Is it that important to you that it be your fault?"

"No, I don't want --. Fuck." Poe shoves a hand through his damp hair and yanks on it. "Fuck, I'm so sorry. What are you going to do?"

"I _thought_ I was going to make out with you, maybe have some pancakes. Then probably blow you."

Poe stares at Finn, replays that sequence in his mind, keeps staring. "What?"

Finn's smile flashes, dazzles. " _Now_ you're at a loss for words?"

"Yes. I, see. But --" Poe shakes his head; Finn places a steadying hand on his waist. "Usually I like to, you know." He circles his hand vaguely. "And suchlike."

"You're being incredibly unclear, man." When Finn smiles at him, Poe could swear the rain stops and the sun comes out. "Are you talking fellatio or pancakes or something else entirely?"

Poe nods urgently. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" Finn's smile is wicked now, teasing and edged with something that makes Poe dry in the mouth and anxious in the pants.

"I thought I'd suck you off," Poe says, looking down at the counter to memorize the ugly pattern. "At least, that's what I was planning on. Hoping for."

"Interesting." Finn touches Poe's chin, tips it up so they're looking at each other again. "There are ways to accommodate both, though. Seventy, isn't that what you said? Even better than 69 --"

Poe screws his eyes shut and groans, knocking his head back against the cabinet. "Fuck, did I say that? I haven't used that line since _college_ , I swear to God --"

"It's a terrible line."

"It is, right? I thought it was the greatest when I was nineteen. That should tell you how bad it is, how dumb I am. Was. No, am."

"Was." Finn flips the next batch of pancakes with one hand, keeping the other around Poe's waist. It's cheesy, and cozy, and Poe has to stop himself from wondering about -- well, about everything. Who is this dude? Why is he so awesome and when's he going to wake up and realize that Poe's not that special one way or the other? Also, what's his last name? 

Poe should know better. He really shouldn't let himself get too used to this, having company here. The more he enjoys it now, the harder it'll be to bear when it ends.

They eat standing up, plates on the counter between them, and Finn's so nice he even listens to Poe's entire epic tale of sugaring, from the tapping of the maples to the boiling of the sap to the devouring of the syrup right here, right now.

"So that's why you're so into plaid?" Finn asks. "Because you're secretly a backwoods hermit-man."

Well, the hermit part is right.

"I'm not into plaid..." When Finn raises an eyebrow, Poe looks down at his shirt, then over at the blanket on the couch that BB has squirmed halfway under. "Am I? I just like, you know. To be warm."

"Uh-huh," Finn says, spearing the last couple pieces on Poe's plate and popping them into his mouth. "Sure."

He has syrup on his chin. Two drops, one a little bigger than the other. They're glinting at Poe. Taunting him.

"What?" Finn asks, voice hushed.

"You --" Poe pushes his plate away. "This is all backward and weird, huh?"

"What is? Breakfast?"

Poe shrugs. "Us. I mean. You're amazing but who are you? Why are you --"

Finn grabs him by the waist again, hauls Poe right up against his chest, then hops backward onto the counter. That's some good vertical lift right there, Poe thinks distractedly, but then Finn's crossing his ankles behind Poe's knees to trap him here at the same time he loops his arms around Poe's neck and kisses him long and slow. Searchingly, lingeringly, like he's studying and savoring all at once.

"That's why," he says after a little while.

"That's not an answer," Poe says stubbornly. Finn opens his mouth but Poe adds, "I'm not complaining. I'm just pointing it out."

"It's the best I've got," Finn says, cupping his hands on either side of Poe's neck, drumming his heels against the back of Poe's legs. "I'm basically playing all this by ear. Improvising, riffing."

"You're Ellington-level, then," Poe says, drawing a line of kisses down the center of Finn's throat. "Gillespie, Miles, Trane. _Bird_."

"Like jazz, huh?"

"Only thing I missed when I was in the field."

"There are these things now, maybe you've heard of them?" Finn's rubbing Poe's shoulders now, alternately kissing and speaking. "MP3s. You should check them out."

"Audio quality, though --" Poe breaks off as Finn bites his right ear lobe, worries at it until Poe gulps out a moan.

Finn leans back, his smile gone smug and teasing. "Let me ask you a question."

"Hit me."

"I've been wondering. You always give up your house keys and dog to anyone who asks?'

"See, I want to say no," Poe says, face heating a little. He doesn't let himself look away, however. As if he _could_. "To let you know you're special, because you are, I really think you are, not that I'm a creep or want you to think I'm clingy, but, also, yes, I do. I probably shouldn't. I trust pretty easily. Gets me into trouble.'

Finn nods and slides his palms down to Poe's waist. "Like last night with Kylo."

"Like last night, yeah. How'd you know?"

Finn frowns a little, as if concerned about Poe's memory again. "I was there."

Poe rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I _know_ , but --"

"It's his boyfriend's club. Kylo. The guy you were..."

Poe covers his face with his hands, as if that can possibly ward off the swarm of memories. "Hitting on? Desperately trying to impress? All but begging for --"

Finn squeezes his shoulder. "Romancing. I was going to say romancing."

"His mom's my -- not my boss, she's the chair of the board of the place I work and, I don't know, he seemed interesting --"

"Hey, you don't have to -- what are you doing? Defending yourself? Don't, it's cool." 

"Explaining, I guess," Poe says. He wants to cover his face again, but that's stupid. "You said romancing, I freaked."

"Romance freaks you out?"

Poe takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and squeezes Finn's thighs. "No. Fucking it up so bad freaks me out."

"You didn't," Finn says. "Those guys, they're --" He stops, giving Poe a tight, worried little ghost of a smile. "You didn't fuck it up."

"I dunno, man, if that was romance, maybe I'm not --"

Finn kisses him again. It's a fantastic way to get shut up, frankly. His hands on Poe's shoulders, Poe's own hands on Finn's waist, they push together, pull and nudge, jostle for the right angle, mouths never breaking apart, feet sliding and shuffling.

"Okay," Poe says, rolling his face against the curve of Finn's neck into his shoulder. He's breathless again, abuzz with much more than sugar; his fingers curl and dig in, try to latch on. "Okay, yeah."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, okay!" He nips on the tendon running down the side of Finn's throat, then the stretch of his clavicle and reshuffles so their legs are slotted together, hips grinding. "Okay."

"Very agreeable," Finn says against Poe's ear, "you know that?"

"No, I'm ornery," Poe insists, hand on Finn's glorious ass now, "usually, I'm a cranky contrarian --"

"Sure, whatever," Finn says, cupping Poe through his jeans and squeezing. "I'm having a lot of trouble picturing that."

Poe bucks into Finn's palm. "Picturing what?"

"Your memory's really worrying me, you know that?"

"Huh," Poe says, popping the button on Finn's fly. "That's fair, I guess." He grins as Finn groans when Poe reaches inside, strokes him out and squeezes the base of Finn's cock. "This how you usually respond to medical emergencies?"

"Yeah, like erotic first aid, sure," Finn says, hips moving, mouth staying open. "Oh, _Christ_."

"You should totally Heimlich me, then," Poe tells him, speeding his stroke, then slowing it down, watching the reactions flicker over Finn's face, getting to know the heat and heft of him. "Take me from behind, right, good and hard, and just _choke_ \--"

Finn kisses him, hot open mouth sliding over Poe's, broad shoulders crowding him backward, even as he grabs for Poe's dick and thrusts into Poe's hand.

There's worry, that's for sure, everywhere around Finn; he can feel it tingling at the back of his mind. But it's not overwhelming him, it's just part of him, like his tongue against Poe's, his hand in Poe's hair, his dick fucking in Poe's grip. The worry's coming along with him, not driving him.

"Fuck, Poe, you feel --" They've made it into the bedroom, Poe's falling backward on the foot of his bed and yanking down his jeans. Finn gets one knee on the bed and pulls down his own pants, but before he can do much more than that, Poe's reaching and rolling and getting right down to work. Mouth first, bent over like someone bowing to the Emperor of Japan, hands on Finn's thighs, he glances up and _smiles_ when Finn meets his eyes. He tries to wink, it looks like, but Finn rolls his hips and Poe moans around him, eyes screwing shut.

Finn flails for balance when Poe sucks both his balls into his mouth, finally ending up half-sprawled out, one hand on the mattress, the other landing heavily on Poe's shoulder. He tries to still the insistent push of his hips, the burn up his spine that wants him to get Poe's mouth all the way around himself, but Poe digs his nails into Finn's thighs and swallows a couple times and Finn's _gone_.

His fingers twine through the back of Poe's hair, tug his mouth higher, then closer, and Poe keeps moaning and swallowing, working down Finn's shaft. The bed's creaking with their movement, Poe's mouth is an oven, his hair's bunching in Finn's sweaty palm, it's too much and not enough. Finn can hear himself babbling, feel his heartbeat resounding around inside the tense envelope of his skin, and the whole time, Poe's trying to crawl closer, swallow deeper, bury his face against Finn.

Finn consciously, deliberately, unknots his fingers from Poe's hair and cups the back of his neck as he tries to pull back. His chest is tight and he's seeing stars already, whole whirling cosmoses, and if Poe keeps up this enthusiastic slobbering _devouring_ schtick, Finn's going to come any second now. Or now, yes. "Christ, man, I'm --"

Poe nods rapidly but scrambles forward, refusing to let Finn pull out much further. His lips are locked around Finn's cockhead, his tongue dancing, and he's groping blindly around Finn's ballsac. He looks up at Finn, _winks_ \-- successfully this time -- and pushes down and forward, spit and heat slicking the way into his throat.

Finn shouts as the orgasm tears out of him, so loudly that BB yips and comes cantering into the room. Finn's fallen on his side by the time the dog arrives. Finn is gasping, his muscles twitching like they're all doing the Charleston, nuzzling the side of Poe's arm when BB-8 licks his foot.

"Holy shit," Finn says, yanking his foot away and sitting up. "Your dog wants in on the action."

He was joking, but Poe's reaching over to pet BB-8, grinning and nodding. "Ha, yeah, thought that might happen."

"Man!"

Poe shrugs. "Sorry. I mean, I haven't had sex -- since I -- for a while, but he's a pretty social guy, so..."

BB's managed to get one paw up on the bed and he whuffles when Finn looks at him. Head still swimming from coming, Finn leans over to scratch BB's ear. "How long's it been? He's what, like ten years old?"

Poe punches Finn, lightly, then kisses BB's head before pushing him back down to the floor. "He's 21 months, thanks."

"Whoa," Finn says, trying to remember where he was almost two years ago. "That's a pretty long --"

Poe pulls himself over until he's lying almost on top of Finn, hand braced beside his cheek. His weight shifts back and forth as he gazes down. "Where were we?"

"You," Finn says, hands coming down on Poe's hips, moving back, grasping his ass and pulling him closer. Orgasmic haze is still clinging to the edges of his consciousness, warming and tingling. "You'd just sucked a good third of my brain out my dick --"

Poe grins crookedly. "Still got it, excellent."

"Like riding a bike?" Finn shifts so he's got one leg bent at the knee, foot flat on the mattress, and Poe slips down a little. When Finn kisses Poe's neck, the damp curves of hair behind his ear, Poe shivers and gulps. His erection presses against Finn's thigh, heavy, warm, insistent.

"A sexy bike, one you ride with your mouth," Poe says, voice slowing dreamily when Finn works his hand between them and strokes him slowly, firmly. "No gag reflex, it's like riding without hands, maybe?" 

“A sexy fixie, no brakes, no gag?" Finn suggests.

"Oh, that's good, yeah, and you can't just stop, you have to ride it out all the way to the end. The bitter end, the bitter, salty, sorta chlorine-y end." Poe chews the corner of his mouth. "Speaking of which, what a coincidence, can I kiss you or is that gross to you? Totally understand if it is, it is to some people, but --"

Rather than answer, Finn twists his grip and jacks Poe more quickly, then kisses him when his mouth drops open on a moan. He does taste sticky and salty, familiar in a way that's much more than 'hey that's my come', but there's that, too, definitely that. Poe grinds into Finn's hand and whimpers a little into the kiss.

"That's good to know," Poe says, "glad I asked."

Finn pinches Poe's hip. "Sit up? I want --"

When Poe swallows, his throat works, Adam's apple dipping, the stubble like coal dust standing out. "This is good, I like this just fine --"

"Good," Finn says, lifting Poe now by the waist, encouraging him to climb off. "Think you'll like this better, though."

"I like a lot of things," Poe says, scrambling back to lean against the wall, "I'm sure --"

Finn takes in the scene before him, Poe's olive skin painted with sweat, the strain and dark flush of his cock, his face so open and hopeful, before diving in. 

The first lick makes Poe shout. The noise trembles and breaks apart into vibrations as Finn wraps his hand around the base and keeps working his tongue around the head.

Poe's ass lifts, his hips pushing forward, and his voice strains out into coherency again. "God, please, I really --"

Finn looks up, finds Poe _peering_ down at him, lip caught in his teeth. His expression is unreadable, fierce and full of wonder. Finn sucks harder, pulsing the flat of his tongue along the underside of Poe's shaft, and keeps staring until Poe throws back his head to groan. 

His neck, his torso, it's all sculpture, throbbing above Finn. As his cock fills Finn's mouth, it's scraping his palate and bumping the back of his throat. Finn swallows rapidly, opening, pressing, and when Poe slips down his throat, there's the distant thump of his fist on the wall, the closer sharp squeal of his breath. After that, all Finn can track is heat, pressure, taste, and the scant, difficult job of breathing.

"Fuck, _fuck_ , I'm --" Poe thrusts double-quick, several times, clutching at Finn's skull and folding himself over, down, fucking forward even as it looks like he wants to kiss Finn, too. He shakes, swells, chokes Finn before he drops back down. From rapid shudders to sweet languor, he uncurls, opens, stretches. Finn works him out gently, light tongue tip and gentle suckling, and by the time Poe's pulled out, they're breathing in time together, raspily. Poe's lying down on his side, pulling close, nuzzling Finn's throat.

"Okay?" Finn asks, hand creeping around Poe's waist.

"More than," Poe says. His shoulders lift, like he's crying or laughing. "Fuck."

"You okay?" Finn means it literally this time; he leans back, thumb under Poe's chin, and looks him over. What would he do, really, were Poe to say 'no'? He wonders that, waits for the worry to congeal and spread, but nothing like that happens. He exhales, taps his fingers along Poe's jaw, and eventually Poe replies.

"Yeah, I really am." Poe scrubs his fist over his face and lets it bounce off Finn's shoulder. "Overwhelmed, but I, I'm fine."

Maybe overwhelmed is the wrong word, Poe's not sure. He's feeling more than he has in a while, has been like this since last night. It's not the alcohol, it turns out. Maybe the alcohol sped up the process, but this surge of feelings isn't abating.

"Tell me about the life of a lumberjack," Finn says.

"I dunno, are there any lumberjacks any more?"

Finn pinches Poe's arm and shakes it. "You, jackass. Mr. Outdoorsy."

"Oh, right." Poe shrugs. "I shot some lumber protesters once, does that count?"

Finn cocks one eyebrow. "With a gun or camera?"

"What do you think?" Poe tries to scowl, look mean and intimidating, but can't hold it.

"So you go camping and hiking, live rough off the trail, all that?" Finn rolls onto his stomach, resting his cheek against one folded arm to look at Poe. His eyes are dark and gentle, blurred by heavy lashes.

"Used to. Much more an office drone these days."

"Hence the city, I guess."

"Yeah." Poe stretches, luxuriating in the sleepy tingle coursing through him. Everything's hushed, and warm, like they stepped out of time. "What about you? Come from a long, proud line of bouncers, just carrying on the family tradition of keeping bar patrons safe and breaking up drunken dickmeasuring fights?"

"Hell, no." Wincing, Finn digs his chin against his arm. He squints, looks away.

Poe knows he said something wrong, but not what, nor what, exactly, was wrong about it. That's the other side of not knowing someone; under, behind, the thrill, there's this haunting discomfort, this sense that you might just get it very wrong, very quickly.

"Bad joke," Poe mutters and rolls over onto his back. "Sorry about that."

"Nah, it's cool," Finn says, just as quietly. "Just, you know. Out of a job."

Poe nods, not that Finn can see that. "Yeah, hear that. What're you looking to do now?"

Finn's still looking into the corner; his jaw works a bit. 

Poe waits. That's the weird thing, the weirdest. 

Normally, he'd be talking up a storm, covering this silence with dumb jokes and jostling nudges, chatter and general dumbassery. Sure, it's been awhile since he's had company like this, but even taking that into consideration, this is _strange_. Good strange. 

He breathes, slow and deep, and lets his hand settle on Finn's back.

Finn rubs his face against his arm and shifts a little closer. Their calves are touching now; their arms, too. Poe's fingertips trace small looping ovals down the edge of Finn's shoulder blade.

Gradually, Finn smiles. Up until now, his smiles -- there must be more than a thousand, Poe's more than confident of this estimate -- have been sudden, startling, arresting phenomena. This one is something else. Still gentle and warm, of course, but hesitant.

It grows less tentative when Poe smiles back, light filling up a room. They're looking at each other again without blinking.

"It's gonna be okay," Finn says, pulling himself close so Poe's holding him now, kissing the side of Poe's jaw, then his mouth, open and warm and wet.

"Better be," Poe says into the kiss, then, "count on it." 

Finn laughs as he nips down on Poe's lip and pushes him into the mattress. More than answer enough.

Pretty soon, BB-8's going to need another walk.


End file.
